


no matter the hearts you burn, in mine you shall always remain

by firewoodfigs



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Concubinage, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, F/M, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Ishval, Mild Fluff, Original Poetry - Freeform, Post-Promised Day, Xingese Roy, Yao Clan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24455179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firewoodfigs/pseuds/firewoodfigs
Summary: The label ‘bastard’ bears multiple meanings for Roy Mustang, who is the result of a dangerous, illicit affair. The story begins in an Imperial Court, deep in the heart of Xing.
Relationships: Chris "Madam Christmas" Mustang & Roy Mustang, Edward Elric & Roy Mustang, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 31
Kudos: 123
Collections: Moms Made Fullmetal Week 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Moms Made Fullmetal Week, Day 7: Farewell / New Beginnings 
> 
> **Songs: Chrysanthemum Terrace, Endless Love**
> 
> Translations:  
> \- 要选 (yào xuǎn) means "want to choose", but Yao Xuan’s name would probably be written as 姚璇 (yáo xuán) in Xingese. The first character is a common Chinese surname and what I’m guessing is the Xingese equivalent for the Yao clan, and the second character means “jade”. Hence why Yao Xuan mentions that her name is a wordplay on “choice” later on.  
> \- 亲爱的 (qīn ài de) - dear; a term of affection.  
> \- 再见 (zài jiàn) - farewell, goodbye.  
> \- 心肝 (xīn gān) - darling; a term of endearment. However, translated literally, it means “heart and liver”. 
> 
> A/N: I know Ling’s name in FMA is structured as Ling Yao, but for the purposes of this fic I rearranged the name such that the clan name comes first - hence Yao Xuan instead of Xuan Yao (in part because the latter has a different meaning). It’s also common for the surname to come first for Chinese names!

**~x~**

The Imperial Court is a terribly lonely place. 

Underneath every smile plastered on perfect porcelain is a heart that mourns and yearns for a life outside the palace. Engraved on walls of gold and jade are recurring motifs of phoenixes and dragons, a reminder to all the concubines sequestered within to remember who they serve. Who their heart rightfully belongs to for the rest of their lives. 

_The Supreme Eminence, the Sovereign Emperor._

Her fate is inescapable from the day she was born. _You are the oldest daughter of the Yao clan, Yao Xuan. It is your duty to produce an heir for the Emperor, for us._ She doesn’t have a say in the matter, doesn’t have a choice, because her destiny has been plotted out like a graph from birth. 

It’s only been months since she entered the Imperial Court as a concubine, but Yao Xuan finds herself already suffocated by the politics and overwhelming expectations of perfection that line every crevice, every footstep. Mornings are a particularly tiresome affair - she awakes even before the sun rises, to begin dressing up for a man that she’s frankly not even interested in. 

_But he owns your life now_. 

The entire thing is ritualistic, but doesn’t offer a sliver of comfort like a religious ritual might have. She sinks gracefully into the warm bathtub filled with red petals for her at six in the morning, before letting the ladies under her dry and tug at her raven tresses methodically. It _hurts_ \- the teeth of the jade comb stabs at her scalp mercilessly, and is an added weight to the already heavy burden on her shoulders. Her face is powdered alabaster with lead, eyebrows darkened with charcoal and lips painted a bright crimson, before she’s swathed tightly in gold satin and scarlet silk.

Though red represents prosperity in Xing, she finds there is nothing prosperous about dressing up everyday for a man who only spares her a momentary glance as he scans the throng of women lined up orderly at the paulownia pavilion for him. 

_Who shall it be today, Your Majesty?_

Secretly, Yao Xuan begs for the Emperor to _not_ pick her for the night, in spite of the pleasant, seductive smile that tugs at her lips mechanically whenever he saunters past her. His eyes scan her like she’s nothing more than a slab of meat at the market, and she finds her heart shattering every time she remembers a man who looked at her like she was the world to him. 

_Christopher Mustang._ He’s nothing more than a forbidden fruit now, but it’s the fact that he’s dangled in front of her that exacerbates the cruelty. Once he was her childhood lover, but now he’s a soldier - General Mustang - in the Imperial Court who’s sworn fealty to the same sovereign entity. 

She wishes this was not their destiny, but fate is cruel and ineluctable and they can only share forlorn, fleeting glances whenever she strolls past him after another day of rejection to return to the royal chambers with the other ladies to dabble in senseless politicking disguised by equally mindless embroidery. 

Sewing has never been one of Yao Xuan’s talents, but there’s really nothing else to do in the stifling confines of the palace. Her fingers ache as she pricks herself with the needle, but it pales in comparison to the pain that shreds through her as she laments for a love and desire buried deep within by the immeasurable weights of duty and destiny. 

**~x~**

Years pass, and spring comes in full bloom. 

Yao Xuan is a wonderful sight to behold in the warmth of spring. Her cheeks are suffused in pink, mirroring the petals falling delicately above her, a lilac robe embracing her magnificent figure. But in spite of her beauty the Emperor waltzes past her in his full regalia without even passing a glance, and with every step she finds her self-worth getting trampled on. 

The other members of the Yao clan have expressed their displeasure many, many times at the very apparent lack of an heir, but there’s nothing she can do. It’s all a matter of chance, and there’s nothing she can do to improve her luck: concubines are not allowed into the Emperor’s room unless they’re chosen. 

(It’s strangely paradoxical, because her name’s a wordplay on choice _,_ but she’s neither chosen nor given a choice.) 

The routine repeats itself: she returns to her chambers after receiving a severe scolding from the other members of the Yao clan for being utterly, utterly _useless._ The only thing that stings is the needle - she refuses to let tears sting her eyes in front of them. Instead, she bows her head subserviently and promises to do better the next time, but her feet wander when night falls. 

Yao Xuan finds herself at the paulownia pavilion again, admiring the lotuses that float gracefully atop shallow waters and decorate them in flecks of white and pink. 

_Purity and enlightenment._

There’s nothing enlightening about her entire predicament - she doesn’t know what else can be done to make herself more attractive to the Emperor, but every dismissal comes with disapproval and disappointment, and it’s a painful pill to swallow. It sits uncomfortably in her gut as she drums her fingers against the chrysanthemum-coloured balustrades to distract herself from the nauseating feeling bubbling in her throat. 

“Lady Yao? What are you doing out here so late at night?” The familiar voice of her childhood lover abates the nausea a little. 

“Just thinking, General Mustang.” She turns to look at him, but her resolve crumples along with her face when she witnesses his kind, strong stature under the moonlight. _There’s nothing more I want than to be with you, qīn ài de._

“Are you alright?” General Mustang stands with a respectable distance between them, but she sees love and sincerity pooling in his eyes, and her own desire that she’s tried to suppress since her entrance to the Imperial Court makes a fiery resurgence. 

“... I’m not,” and she begins to cry. Instinctively, he wants to embrace her, whisper sweet nothings into her crown of black tresses, but he _can’t_. 

General Mustang grips the hilt of his blade in an attempt to resist temptation, but she inches forward daintily to reach for his hand, and his resolve likewise falters. He automatically responds in kind when she rests her palm on his, and he’s quick to intertwine his fingers around hers, tracing circles on the back of her palm while murmuring soothing platitudes. 

In the end, years of suppressed desire inundates them, and despite the alarm bells ringing in their heads their feet move involuntarily, as if possessed by some kind of uncontrollable automatism, towards Yao Xuan’s chambers. She disrobes, he disarms, and their bare bodies finally become one in the darkness. 

There’s nothing pure about their union, only immoral, but it’s the first time they’ve felt happiness after an eternity of loneliness and despair.

**~x~**

_sentenced to death  
even before you were born  
curse the stars, cruel fate  
— they have damned you!  
but i knew, even then  
you were born to be loved  
in my womb, in my heart  
i carry you with all my love. _

**~x~**

She’s not sure if the nausea is due to the tempestuous storm of emotions writhing in her gut after enduring incessant reprimands and lashings from the other members of the Yao clan, or the symptoms of something a lot more petrifying. 

But it persists for weeks, and she’s late. 

_Late._

A terrifying consequence after an illicit affair. It goes without saying that they’ll both be executed upon discovery, for it is impossible that _this_ is the Emperor’s scion. After all, he’s never even laid a hand on her, and the only logical conclusion is that the child growing inside her belongs to her lover. 

The inevitable fate that awaits them is only death and dishonor. They would face opprobrium in its most unadulterated form, no doubt, and she would be exiled from the Yao clan for the shame she’s brought to her family’s name. 

Yao Xuan could bear dying alone, being humiliated and scorned by her clan, but the thought of her lover and her unborn child being murdered alongside her kills her. 

An unborn, innocent child who has done nothing wrong except exist. 

Despite the wrongness of the whole situation, there’s a part of her that’s secretly elated - excited, even. For this was the fruit of their love, and her heart was already beginning to bloom with adoration for her son. Or daughter, but her maternal instincts convince her that it will be a son.

Fortunately, she’s not selected by the Emperor that day. Yao Xuan endures the rest of the day with as much normalcy as she can before making her way to a secluded veranda at night that’s a safe spot away from prying eyes. 

She spots General Mustang, who has received her note earlier in the day to meet her here at midnight, and walks to his side. 

“What’s the matter, Lady Yao?” 

Yao Xuan doesn’t speak. Instead, she bends over gracefully to pick up three abandoned petals on the ground and lifts it up to his eyes, her other hand resting on the barely discernible swell of her stomach. 

General Mustang’s eyes widen. They’ve known each other for years, and it’s easy for him to understand her message immediately. 

_Pregnant. With our child._

He closes the remaining distance between them and splays an open palm on her stomach. 

“I plan to run away with this child, General.” _Alone._ The implication is clear - she doesn’t want him to be involved, doesn’t want him to be stripped of his title and suffer a dishonorable discharge and be executed. 

_But there’s nothing more dishonorable than leaving the woman I love to go through this alone._ “Not by yourself, Yao Xuan.”

She pushes his palm away gently from her stomach, and meets his gaze with a stern one, trying not to let his use of her full name unwind her. “Yes, General. I will not do this to you - not after you’ve worked so hard to get to where you are now.” 

“You’re more important than all of that,” he murmurs, but there’s an edge to his voice that makes it crystal clear that he’s made up his mind, and there’s nothing she can do that will deter him from acting upon it. He clasps a firm hand around her wrist. “Let’s go.” 

Yao Xuan casts a final glance at the overbearing silhouette of the palace grounds before whispering a quiet apology to her sister - they’re ten years apart in terms of age, but it will be her turn to bear the unbearable burden of being a concubine this time - as she elopes with her lover and a stomach that’s beginning to swell with life. 

Together, they traverse through the desert with nothing to their name, but full of love for their unborn child. 

**~x~**

_the stars stare down at you  
as we traverse through  
the desert. the night is cold  
but here you will stay warm,  
within me. you are  
a blessing, God’s gift to me.  
a journey thus sublime  
— you must live, new life. _

**~x~**

Her son’s birth had been a difficult one, and life afterwards with her husband as fugitives in the harsh desert wasn’t easy. But she’s surprisingly content. Happy, even, with the simple domesticity that they’ve been blessed with, and whenever Yao Xuan looks at the innocent bundle of joy in her arms she smiles with the knowing conviction that they’d made the right choice. 

She can’t help but think that their beloved son - Roy Mustang - is perfection in a swath of linen the first time she sees him, and she loves him with such a fierce tenderness that it engulfs her completely - even more than her love for her husband. Chris shares the same sentiments, and they both share an unspoken consensus that they would die for him instantaneously should the need arise, without second thought. 

And like a fulfilled prophecy, the need _does_ arise. 

Roy Mustang is a little toddler of four, brimming with innocuous delight whenever his mother reads to him about the basics of science, before reciting tales of knights in shining armour slaying evil dragons that breathe fire afterwards. 

(His father has a nice voice, too, and Roy is equally delighted whenever he reads to him, but he finds himself preferring his mother’s voice to his bright tenor.) 

Yao Xuan rests a hand endearingly on his arm, and Roy thinks there’s nothing like the warmth of her bosom as he snuggles in adorably. The gentle lull of her voice has an almost soporific effect, and he finds himself slowly dozing off. 

Until his father barges in. He speaks with a pitch higher than Roy is accustomed to, and the panic radiating off his body, his every movement, causes him to stir slightly. “We need to go now, Yao Xuan. They’ve found us.” 

The book she’d been reading earlier falls to the ground unceremoniously with a loud thud, jolting Roy awake. “What’s wrong, mama? Papa?” He blinks, rubbing the sleep away from his eyes blearily. At the sight of the fallen book, he picks up the book immediately and brushes off any imaginary specks of dust, grabbing it firmly with his tiny hands. 

“We need to run, son,” she picks him up deftly, allowing Roy to rest on her shoulder while stroking his tuft of raven hair with trembling hands. 

Together they begin to run through the desert, Roy’s eyes wide as he takes in the stars gleaming brightly overhead and the cold wind slapping his face, but the wind and stars are not their only companion. His parents hear footsteps inching towards them, metal clanging against armor and know that they’re close to getting ambushed. 

_Is this it? The punishment for our sins?_

“Stop right there, the both of you.” 

General Mustang stiffens. _That voice…_

“General Lan Yan?” he calls. It’s difficult to make out the man’s identity, especially when he’s decked in black from head to toe and has a mask on, but he would recognise that voice anywhere. 

The masked man removes his visor to confirm General Mustang’s thoughts, as the other soldiers draw their swords, inching closer to form an inescapable circle around the two traitors. 

“We’re trapped, aren’t we?” Yao Xuan whispers to her husband. She holds her son closer to her as he starts sobbing into her shoulder, his young mind confused and scared by the dangerous-looking strangers swarming around them. 

(The only people Roy knew who wielded swords were the knights from fairytales, and the men around him looked nothing like heroes.) 

“We’re under orders from the Emperor to execute the both of you,” General Lan Yan announces, eyes steeled in resolve but with a tremulous edge in his voice. He winces at the thought of being ordered to kill a former comrade, a friend. 

A friend who he had once admired, trained with and fought against. Years ago, they’d started out with relatively bad impressions of each other. Lan Yan had thought he was an arrogant bastard, even though everyone called him the golden boy because of his impressive swordsmanship and mastery of alkahestry. On the other hand, Christopher Mustang was inclined to think of him as a rival, an annoying panderer, given that he was constantly trying to one-up him. 

But they’d eventually grown to become close friends, for they were more alike than they thought. Not only did they have similar tastes in food and literature, but they’d shared the same ideals and hopes for the future of Xing as well. 

_How terrible that we have to be reunited like this, my friend._ The words, though unspoken, lingered on the tip of their tongues. 

“I only ask that you spare my son, General Lan Yan,” _And my wife, but I know that’s asking for too much._

“... Very well, General Mustang. I’ll give you and Lady Yao five minutes,” he states. Beside him, a masked man begins to prepare lethal poison in two silver cups. 

“Thank you, General Lan Yan.” An indescribable gratitude fills General Mustang’s voice, as his wife’s cries begin to mirror his son’s sobs. 

Sorrow, sympathy and guilt tugs at General Lan Yan’s heartstrings as he looks at the terrified child in Lady Yao’s arms. His mind races, cogs working in overdrive, scrambling for a final favour he could do for General Mustang. He couldn’t save him or his wife, but perhaps he could save his son - after all, the Emperor had made no mention about executing the _product_ of their affair. 

_The least I can do for my best friend would be to bring his child to safety._

“Who shall I bring the child to?” 

“... To my sister. Across the desert, in Amestris, there’s a tavern in Central called The Blue Porcelain. Please bring him there for me.” 

“I will do that, General Mustang. On my honor - you have my word.” 

_Four minutes left._ “Listen, Roy, we’re going to have to say goodbye here,” Yao Xuan whispers softly, but she can’t restrain her voice from cracking at the thought of having to bid her precious son farewell. 

“Why, mama?” Roy sobs, tightening his hold around her neck while still clutching onto the book with a vice-like grip. 

“... Your father and I did some wrong things in the past. But listen carefully, _xin gan._ ” A term of endearment, but Yao Xuan feels like her heart and liver are being ripped apart from her at the moment as she loosens his arms to look him in the eye. “We’re going to send you to live with your aunt, but I want you to be good for her, okay? I know she will love you as much as I do, if not more.” 

She runs a thumb across his soft, wet cheeks, savouring the feeling and ingraining it in her memory. “Make sure you eat well everyday, shower twice a day. Study hard, and do your best in school. Don’t skive off. Be kind to those around you, and… and I hope you grow up to be a wonderful man like your father.” Yao Xuan weeps, tears mixing with her son’s. “There will be bright days, rainy days, but I know that you will come to find people who care about you as deeply as I do. And no matter what you do… know that we will always love you, Roy.” 

“I love you too, mama, but don’t go, please,” Roy begs. He’s not quite sure what’s going on around him - they were the heroes and heroines in the books they read to him, and they were supposed to protect him, not abandon him. 

_What does that mean? Will I see them again?_

General Mustang rubs at his eyes impatiently. “We have to, Roy. I love you, and I know that you will grow up to be a fine man. I know you’ll surpass me.” He flashes Roy a watery smile as he places a warm hand on his forehead, but it’s full of faith and certitude. 

_This is our son, after all._

“I love you too, papa. I need you,” Roy pleads with all the desperation of a child who wanted nothing more than to be with his parents every day. 

Their hearts shatter when General Lan Yan signals that their time is almost up. _Ten seconds._

“Be strong, son. We’re so sorry,” Yao Xuan mourns as Roy is pried from her arms and lifted onto a horse by General Lan Yan. “ _Zai jian, xin gan_ ,” she bids farewell solemnly as she watches his small, struggling frame disappear in the dark, unforgiving night, deserting them to face their death. The wind carries his desperate wails, and for the first time since her pregnancy the nausea is back with a wrathful vengeance. 

_But it won’t be here to stay this time._

She crosses an arm with her husband as they receive the cups of poison with unwilling hands, pulses beating violently as they repeat their vows of undying love to each other for the last time. 

_Farewell, my son._

**~x~**

_your first breath, first taste  
of this wretched world:  
a cry of triumph,  
a fist of victory,  
a defiance of death.  
my soul sings into satin and linen:  
affection for perfection. _

**~x~**

It doesn’t take long for Roy to cry himself to sleep. His petite body shuts down quickly from the sheer exhaustion of doing so, and he’s out like a light soon enough as he traverses across the desert with General Lan Yan. When he’s awoken by the onslaught of a particularly harsh wind and what sounds like an oncoming sandstorm, he’s pulled back into sleep by a gentle force on his pressure point. 

Suddenly, he’s roused from his slumber by someone shaking him, and as he cracks an eyelid open to peer out the window he realises that - _wait, this is not the desert_. The scene around him is a stark contrast to the vast expanse of sand and ochre that he’s used to. The alleys that they pass by are narrow, and they reek of something unfamiliar. It’s unpleasant. Roy doesn’t like it. 

Then the memory of what happened hits him like a truck, and he begins to bawl again even as he’s brought out into the sunlight, towards a strange-looking establishment. It’s nothing like Roy has ever seen in his life, and though it’s significantly cooler he finds himself already longing for the desert heat beating on his back. 

_The Blue Por…_ He tries to read the sign on the door, but it’s a word too big for his age.

General Lan Yan raps on the door while keeping a steady hand on the boy’s sobbing frame. “Miss Mustang?” 

The door opens to reveal a gruff-looking woman. “What?” Roy finds himself intimidated by the woman’s brusque and domineering persona. She’s decked in a plum-coloured dress with lips to match, with mother-of-pearls and gold branched around her neck like a collar. Her hair and eyes are jet black, like Roy’s and his parent’s, but he finds that she looks _nothing like his mother,_ who’s kind and sweet and - 

\- he bursts into tears again. 

“What’s going on?” The Madame asks, bewildered by the sight of a crying child and a man who, from his ostentatious armor and features is obviously from Xing. There’s a sense of guilt lingering within her when she looks upon the distressed child, so she stretches out to rest an awkward hand on his unruly black hair (which reminds her a little of her brother’s, who’s never been known to make acquaintance with a comb). 

“Your brother…” General Lan Yan straightens, chiding himself mentally for letting his tongue slip. “General Mustang said to bring your nephew here, miss.” 

_My nephew. Nephew._

God, she wasn’t even aware that her brother had a son. How did he even find the time to raise a child while serving in the Xingese military? 

“That’s Madame Christmas to you, and where’s my brother?” 

“I hate to inform you of this, Madame Christmas. He is dead.” There’s a certain fluidity in his response that disguises his remorse, his reluctance, but his eyes prickle marginally at the thought of his deceased friend and his wife. 

Christmas feels like he’s just thrown her under a moving train. “Don’t joke around.” 

“I… I am afraid not. I’m here to carry out his last wish,” General Lan Yan replies somberly. Beside him, the child fidgets, gripping onto the book he’d brought along with him so hard that the edges begin to leave marks on his palms. 

“How?” 

“... It is not my place to say, Madame. We’ve been silenced by a royal decree,” and it’s true. She wants to go after the man with a quick fist, but there’s nothing that belies the brutal veracity of his statement on his expression. 

Christmas swallows the painful lump in her throat before choking out her next words. “And what… what was his last wish?” _I definitely need a drink after this._

“He only said to bring the child to you. I assume he intended for you to raise him as well.”

“... Where’s his mother?” It’s more rhetorical than anything, but Christmas wanted to believe that there could be a different answer by some stroke of luck. 

“Dead, as well,” he whispers, and Roy’s cries amplify tenfold as he flinches away from the General’s hand - his hand reminded him of the villains in the stories his mother would read aloud to him - and huddles into itself. 

“... I see.” She pauses for a moment to take in his frail frame. “Well, I’ll be taking him, then,” she motions for Roy to come over before gesturing for the General to leave. 

(As much as she wanted to flip a finger, she realised that she would have to rethink some habits now that she had a child under her wing.) 

“Thank you, Madame Christmas. I entrust the boy into your care,” he bows before turning to leave, glancing at the boy’s shuddering figure for one last time before returning back to the carriage. 

_Here’s to a new beginning for your son, General Mustang, Lady Yao. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for the both of you._

~x~

It takes time for the child to adjust to the novelty of his new home, his new beginning. But eventually, he does. 

Aunt Chris and his mother are two worlds apart. For starters, they looked nothing alike. And where his mother was delicate and soft, Aunt Chris was loud and rough. 

Nevertheless, they are alike in some ways, he learns. Roy’s the only boy in the bar, as he later learns it’s called, and despite her initial crabbiness Aunt Chris is surprisingly tactile and nice. It doesn’t take long for her to grow fond of the boy, the same way the girls in the bar fawn over him from the moment he steps in. He’s rather petulant and sullen initially, but this doesn’t come as a shock for someone who lost his parents at such a tender age. 

When Roy first arrived at The Blue Porcelain he’d holed himself up in the room assigned to him, reading the only book he’d brought from home over and over again (Roy also discovered that his mother had left a poem, a letter of sorts within, and he never went anywhere without it - he treated it like a talisman). 

But Aunt Chris doesn’t let him sulk for long. 

No matter how grouchy he was, she would always drag him out forcibly for dinner, and made a conscious effort to talk to him daily even though he clearly wasn’t the biggest conversationalist around. She’d tried reading bedtime stories to him, even, and indulged him when he whined about wanting to hear about princesses and knights. 

Where his mother’s voice was like silk, hers was a lot more like gravel. Nevertheless, Roy eventually comes to appreciate it, and would even look forward to their nightly sessions where he could tell her all about what he’d learnt at school that day. 

Aunt Chris also nags at him the same way his own mother did - she’s always yammering at him to finish his food, hold his chopsticks properly or do his homework, and while it gets on his nerves occasionally he comes to understand that it’s their way of showing affection. 

It’s therefore a no-brainer for him to draw both his aunt and his mother when he’s assigned with the task of producing an artwork of his mother for school, but when he shows it to Aunt Chris she begins to tear up. 

He’s puzzled. _Am I really that bad at art?_

“What’s wrong, Aunt Chris?” 

“Nothing, boy. It’s lovely,” she says sincerely. 

Roy grins. “My teacher said so, too. I’ve been doing well in all my other subjects in school too, you know. Top of the class,” he chirps happily, puffing out his chest a little in pride. 

“That’s wonderful, Roy-boy. I’m sure you’ll grow up to be a great man one day, like your father.” 

“... Really?” There’s a certain melancholy that laces his voice, as if he was unsure of himself. 

His aunt, on the other hand, is unequivocal that he would. She was no fortune teller, but there was a fire that illuminated his eyes. The mark of a warrior, a leader. “Absolutely. You’re destined for greatness, my boy.” 

(Roy didn’t know this yet, but he would one day negotiate treaties on behalf of his country with a future distant relative and ascend to a rank higher than his father’s so that he could marry the woman he loved without any ramifications.) 

**~x~**

_(look, a bastard child!)  
no, you will embark towards  
glorious greatness. life doomed you once,  
but in your hands it shall soon rest.  
hear me now. heart and hearth:  
keep them ablaze, alight.  
no matter the ones you burn,  
in mine you shall always remain. _

**~x~**

The war-torn desert reminds Major Mustang of a childhood memory that he’s tried to suppress for a long, long time. With every howl of the wind, the ache in his heart only grew stronger. Hotter. Like an inferno threatening to consume his innards. 

He’d always been acutely aware of the pain of having your parents ripped apart from you in front of your very eyes. It was the kind of anguish that abated only slightly with time, but then and now grief would come back with a vengeance. Always, in the most unexpected of moments. 

And yet here he was, doing the exact same thing years later. 

_Spare no one,_ the decree says. In response, The Flame Alchemist obeys. 

_Destined for greatness, my ass._

He would have liked to seek out a certain childhood friend for comfort, but he couldn’t bear to touch her. Not like this. Not when he’d stained his hands scarlet, not when he’d been a contributing factor to her involvement in the war. In any case, he highly doubted that she wanted to be even associated with him at this point, which suited him fine. He didn’t deserve her. 

_Not in the least, you monster._

The whiskey does nothing to assuage the emotional storm brewing within him. A distasteful mix of sorrow, compunction, longing. Alcohol, he realised, could not bring him absolution or erase his sins. It only offered a brief respite, a numbing agent. 

Major Mustang sinks onto the floor of the weather-beaten tent as he digs inside his pockets for an old poem that had offered him comfort since he was five, even before his vocabulary was wide enough to comprehend its intended message.

He hadn’t cried, not since the war happened, but his mother’s predictions had been eerily accurate. Prophetic, even. For indeed life rested in his hands - with a snap, he could destroy an entire population; he’d burnt so many hearts, so many hearths, that his were now darkened with despair and remorse.

_I really am a bastard of the most reprehensible kind, aren’t I?_

Lost in a pool of words and grief, he misses the presence of a blonde girl who was only slightly shorter, younger than he was. Riza Hawkeye comes in through the tent flap and stares at him wordlessly. She sees him grasping tightly onto a familiar piece of crumpled parchment, as if it was the last shred of hope in their wretched lives. 

Overcome with sympathy, Riza decides to push aside the conflicting feelings raging within her - for now, at least - and sits beside him. 

He’d shown her the letter once, when they were children - the only memento his late mother had left behind. Riza had never seen him go anywhere without it. It was obviously of great import to him, and his mother had clearly loved him dearly.

“No matter the ones you burn, in mine you shall always remain,” Riza whispers. And it's true: despite the atrocities they’d committed outside, the crimes against humanity they’d perpetrated, there was a part of her that still loved him, as his own mother would have.

For the first time since The Ishvalan Extermination, Roy allows himself to mourn in her arms as he clutches desperately onto a yellowing letter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to @hirayaart and @rainflame for helping me read through this, and for your invaluable feedback 💕 I appreciate it, and you both, SO much :') 
> 
> //
> 
> In case you'd like to read the poem in full: 
> 
> _the triumph therein_  
>   
>  sentenced to death  
> even before you were born  
> curse the stars, cruel fate  
> — they have damned you!  
> but i knew, even then  
> you were born to be loved  
> in my womb, in my heart  
> i carry you with all my love.
> 
> the stars stare down at you  
> as we traverse through  
> the desert. the night is cold  
> but here you will stay warm,  
> within me. you are  
> a blessing, God’s gift to me.  
> a journey thus sublime  
> — you must live, new life.
> 
> your first breath, first taste  
> of this wretched world:  
> a cry of triumph,  
> a fist of victory,  
> a defiance of death.  
> my soul sings into satin and linen:  
> affection for perfection.
> 
> (look, a bastard child!)  
> no, you will embark towards  
> glorious greatness. life doomed you once,  
> but in your hands it shall soon rest.  
> hear me now. heart and hearth:  
> keep them ablaze, alight.  
> no matter the ones you burn,  
> in mine you shall always remain.
> 
> -firewoodfigs 
> 
> // 
> 
> Hi everyone!! I hope you enjoyed the one-shot and the poem - I'd love to hear any kind of feedback! Also, I might write a sequel of sorts, where Roy returns to Xing after The Promised Day and finds out more about his... background - let me know if that interests you :) 
> 
> If you'd like to see more Xingese Roy, I'm currently working on another multi-chap fic where Roy is basically Xingese royalty (probably stemmed from my innate desire to see him rule a nation tbh). But it'll probably be awhile before I get it up - I'm looking to finish **[memento amare](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24862408/chapters/60147661)** and my other WIPs first :'D 
> 
> In the meantime, stay safe everyone! And say hi on Tumblr if you're there - I'm firewoodfigs ^_^


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> General Mustang returns to Xing with his subordinate upon receiving an invitation from a certain Emperor (or, upon Grumman's none-too-subtle prompting). 
> 
> "Edward, for all his shortcomings, had managed to give his wife a life of bliss; love and holy matrimony. He, on the other hand, had cursed the only woman he’d ever loved with pain and suffering and violent purgatory."

**~x~**

The trade agreement with Xing turned out to be a roaring success.

Though the work Mustang did mainly consisted of negotiating treaties and perusing relevant documents for approval (which mostly kept him shackled in this god-awful office), he’d heard enough to conjure a relatively accurate and vividly detailed picture in his mind of what was going on even without visiting it. 

The trade routes had expanded tremendously since its inception into an extensive transcontinental network. What had originally started out as a simple avenue for people from different nations to barter tea leaves and spices and agricultural produce had flourished into a platform for the trade of much more valuable items like jade and silk, along with the exchange of cultures and religions. Men from various ethnicities and denominations would barter celebratory wines in goodwill over a hearty pot of communal stew as well; sharing stories and life experiences over campfires the way they contributed carrots and potatoes and onions and generous slabs of meat. And in spite of the desultory deviations from lawful activity, Mustang was nonetheless very, _very_ grateful for the socioeconomic benefits that had trickled down on Ishval. 

“You’ve done a great job, General Mustang,” Fuhrer Grumman praised, extending a proud hand to congratulate him earnestly. 

“Thank you, sir,” Mustang accepted the compliment graciously, if only for the sake of placating someone whom he regarded as a mentor and an old friend. 

The word _great_ lingered bitterly in his mind, forcing him back into a time where he’d been fed endearing reassurances that he was destined for _greatness._ In truth, Roy still deemed himself to be terribly far from greatness. Or maybe he’d never amount to anything remotely close, even. 

Which, to be fair, was perfectly fine. He didn’t deserve it. The bulk of the military _still_ conceived of him as a boot-licking sycophant who was starved for glory and willing to do anything for a promotion, and Mustang couldn't be bothered to correct their misconceptions.

Politics was a game that thrived on appearances, after all. 

Beneath the semblance he'd carefully constructed, though, the apparitions of the genocidal extermination still haunted him day and night. Restoration, he’d learnt, was not the same as restitution. The latter implied that restoration to _originality_ was even possible in the first place. But that was impossible - there was nothing he could do to bring the dead back to life. Nothing could erase the stains on his weary soul; not even the strongest brands of whiskey or vodka.

And while he was more than thankful to have a certain Lieutenant Colonel by his side, the guilt and remorse he felt towards her had hardly abated despite her constant reminders that _what’s past is past, sir. We can only keep looking forward and do our best…_

“Anyway,” the Fuhrer piped up, interrupting his ruminations that had taken a turn for the worse. “I happened to receive an invitation from the Emperor to pay him a visit in Xing. A celebratory dinner of sorts for the benefits they’ve enjoyed thus far.” A faint smirk graced his fox-like features as he ploughed on. “But I’m probably too old to travel through a desert by now, and I’d very much prefer to send a proxy instead.” 

“Oh? Surely you wouldn’t want to give up a chance to escape the dreadful mountain of paperwork that must have accumulated on your table by now?” Mustang teased in response, all too aware of his terrible work ethic. 

Pot, kettle. 

“Perhaps, but I thought I could grant you that privilege of running away from boring administrivia instead,” he winked furtively. 

“How very generous of you, sir,” Mustang laughed. Already he knew there was no way of turning down the invitation, and it _was_ the perfect opportunity for dodging the steadily growing stacks of parchment amassing before him. Not to mention revisiting his birthplace. Or had it been somewhere else? 

Either way, Mustang vaguely recalled growing up in the middle of the sun-beaten desert, choking on sand and dust as he rolled along soft dunes like an overly excited gerbil… amongst other less innocent and pleasant memories. 

“I know,” Grumman nodded sagely, raising a hand to stroke his whitened beard. “I do believe there’s space for an additional member of the team to partake in the celebratory affair, as well. If you’d like to pick someone as your companion?” 

“Of course.”

**~x~**

The desert was every bit as harsh as they’d remembered it to be. 

Despite the shelter that the tiny wagon provided, their throats were painfully parched from the dry air. The blistering heat ensured that sweat descended in fat, unstoppable droplets even as they’d wisely shed their military uniforms for thinner, looser clothing.

Beside him, Hawkeye fidgeted slightly, clearly uncomfortable with the torrid heat of the late summer afternoon. 

“Sorry, Hawkeye,” Mustang whispered under his breath, equally perturbed by the weather himself. 

“It’s no problem at all, sir.” As if to drive her point home, she immediately straightened her posture and ran both hands over her clothes, smoothing out any imaginary creases that might have been there. 

Mustang chuckled lightly at her professionalism. “At ease. It’s just the both of us here, Riza.” Reaching into his duffel, he fished out a wooden canteen and unscrewed the cap before offering it to her. “Here, have a drink.” 

“You first, sir,” she insisted, ever the self-sacrificing saint. 

“Don’t be silly. Unless you want me to make something as basic as drinking water an order,” he teased, gently placing it in her callused hands. “Besides, ladies first, right?”

Somewhat begrudgingly, Hawkeye obliged and brought the bottle up to her cracked lips. “There,” she said, once she was done quenching her thirst. “Satisfied?” 

“Very,” Mustang smirked as she shoved the bottle back into his hands. He did the same, deliberately allowing a subdued sigh to escape his lips. Strange how something as plain as water could taste like fine wine in a desert. “That was nice, though, sharing an indirect ki-” 

“Don’t you _dare_ finish that sentence, sir,” she deadpanned, giving him a look that promised a slow, painful death if he dared to do so.

Grinning, he raised a hand in a mock salute. “Wouldn’t _dare_ challenge your authority, Lieutenant Colonel Hawkeye.” 

She rolled her eyes as she reached for her stash of travel essentials to fish out an anthology of poems to occupy herself with (although Mustang was sure it was more to hide the faint blush that was starting to mottle her cheeks). Snickering inwardly, he did the same, retrieving a relatively thin treatise on economics and international trade from his bag. 

The rest of their travelling was spent in companionable silence; both attempting to distract themselves from the sweltering heat with their books of choice. Hawkeye was definitely a lot more immersed in her readings than he was, though. Mustang found her quiet focus infinitely more fascinating than some stranger’s ramblings about trilemmas and impossible trinities. Every now and then, he’d turn to examine her profile, intrigued. And if she was disturbed or distracted by his staring, she simply chose not to say anything about it. 

Instead, she continued to bury herself in her collection of poems (which reminded him of the letter that his mother had left behind) until the wagon came to an eventual halt. 

“We should stop here briefly for dinner, sirs,” the horseman announced, descending from his steed. “Would it be alright if I went for a quick break?” he asked, as a passing merchant - presumably an old friend - greeted him amiably. 

Hawkeye dismissed him with a small nod as they exited the carriage. 

The early hints of evening-time greeted them outside. The sky was a soft, pearly shade of blue, stretching across endless expanses of sand and dust and undulating valleys. Though they’d stopped at a relatively less populated area across the desert - near the ruins of Xerxes - there were a few columns of fire blazing around as others likewise retired for the day to enjoy a simple meal together. 

Mustang grimaced. As he’d correctly predicted, most of the surrounding travellers were quick to shuffle away and place a wary distance between them. A number of shopkeepers glared at them in consternation, wordlessly rebuking them for even having the audacity to make their presence known. For the most part, therefore, ire and suspicion seemed to triumph. And he didn’t blame them. Yet, surprisingly, there were a select few who welcomed them with undeserved warmth; a stark contrast to the chilly, biting wind. 

“Hi, sir, missy! What brings you guys here?” chirped a young girl with braided hair that glimmered like strings of pearls in the dusky twilight. Tiptoeing, she examined his features more closely, eyes shining with precocious observance, only to gasp softly when realisation struck. “Are you _the_ General Mustang? I’ve seen you in the news before, I think!” 

“I am,” he said, hoping this wasn’t the part where she’d run away screaming. 

“Wow, that’s amazing! My mom said this,” she gestured to the long stretch ahead of them filled with weary, but pleased travellers and merchants, “is all thanks to you and your team. And because papa’s been able to make good money, we’ve been able to build ourselves a nice little home nearby!” A radiant grin broke across her cheery countenance as she tugged at his sleeve. “Won’t you join us for dinner?” 

“Leila,” came a gentle voice from behind her. Unsure if chiding and remonstrance would follow, Mustang slowly backed away. Hawkeye did the same, resting a furtive hand on his wrist. “I apologise, sirs. I hope my child is not interrupting any important business,” she said softly.

“Of course not,” Hawkeye hastened to reassure, as he’d retreated into stunned silence at their unexpected courtesy. “We were just about to have dinner ourselves, too. Suppose you have any... recommendations?” she inquired politely, looking around at the small makeshift stalls nearby smelling faintly of lentils and beans and stew. 

The same thought held their minds: which ones _wouldn’t_ drive them away? 

“Well, if you don’t mind joining us at our humble abode,” the kind lady reached out to pat her daughter’s shiny tresses with fond affection, who was still bubbling with excitement, “We’d love to have you over for dinner,” she offered sincerely. 

“... Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?” Hawkeye asked, taking the question off his mind. 

“Yes, we’re sure,” she insisted. 

Leila beamed at them as she wriggled out of her mother’s hold, tugging at his sleeve once more. 

“Come on! Mom happened to make a feast today, and her cooking is awesome,” she whispered the last part conspiratorially. Her infectious grin made it impossible to decline their offer, and so they relented, following after the mother-daughter duo meekly. 

**~x~**

The house was made of the traditional adobe blocks: small, but inviting. A neat collection of plants - mostly succulents and a few adeniums - sat on their front porch. Inside, brick walls were decorated with religious tapestries and half-completed embroideries, and atop the little fireplace lay a collection of Xingese nesting dolls, which must have no doubt belonged to little Leila. And true to the child’s words, her mother’s cooking smelt _magnificent._ On the dining table lay a delightful pot of chicken tagine, accompanied by a platter of red bean buns and osmanthus jelly.

Mustang smiled softly to himself. His mother’s favourites. 

_Osmanthus is good for your throat,_ she used to say. _Especially since you’re always running and screaming in the desert._

“Oh, this looks wonderful,” Hawkeye said, prodding him gently. Nodding in agreement, he let himself be led to the table by the excited child. 

“We thank you for your hospitality, Miss…” he paused questioningly as they took their seats. 

“Ames. But just call me Norah. My husband should be home soon, but we can start without him,” she said, scooping two generous portions of chicken tagine for them. 

Leila, on the other hand, had already settled down in between them comfortably. “This one’s my favorite!” With eager hands, she reached for a red bean bun, only to be stopped by her mother’s chiding. 

“Leila,” her mother admonished gently. 

“Oops, sorry!” Grinning, she plopped one on each of their plates, then squeezed her eyes shut as she recited a short supplication under her breath. “Okay!” 

The smile that broke across Riza’s expression warmed his heart immensely. Despite her stern and stoic nature, he’d always known that she had a maternal side somewhere, especially given the way she treated her beloved pet and her younger subordinates. And her unwavering devotion was clear proof of her capacity for deep, abiding love... 

She would’ve made a wonderful mother, no doubt. 

“You’re very sweet, Leila. Thank you,” she murmured, reaching out to stroke her hair tenderly. 

Leila beamed. “Not at all! I forgot to ask - what’s your name, miss? Are you a member of his team, too? Or his wife?” 

Mustang coughed, choking on his food as Hawkeye chuckled - both at the child’s question and his predicament. “You can call me Riza, dear. And I’m his _subordinate_ ,” she said, still amused. 

“I see! Are you a soldier too, then?” 

Both apologetic and anxious, Norah looked up from her own plate to stare nervously across the table at her child. “Leila,” she prompted again. 

“I am,” Riza answered, nodding gently in her mother’s direction. Reassured, she relaxed slightly and dug into her own bowl. “What about you, Leila? How old are you?” 

“I’m ten! I go to the school nearby. It’s fun - I enjoy making friends, but I _really_ hate having to do homework,” she pouted, eliciting a bout of genuine laughter from all around the table. 

The rest of the meal went by without incident. Both of them made sure to express appreciation and praise for Norah’s cooking (Mustang, in particular, very much enjoyed the pretty yellow cubes), while Leila regaled them with more tales of her schooling life and proudly waved a picture that she’d drawn of her and her little family once she was done with her food. 

“This is my dad,” she declared, pointing to a little stickman that had been outlined with a brown crayon. As if on cue, he appeared through the door, earning an excited squeal from her. “Hi, Papa! Welcome home!” 

“Hello, Leila,” the tired man bent down to receive her petite frame. Despite his rather intimidating stature - for he had a massive build, and a jagged scar ran down the side of his face, which began at his eyes and ended at the corner of his mouth - he was exceptionally gentle with his daughter. “And hello, dearest,” he greeted his wife, before turning to face the two guests. 

Guests who were evidently, in his opinion, _very_ unwelcome. 

“What are _they_ doing here?” he grunted derisively, frowning. 

“Come now, dear, don’t be rude to our guests,” the matriarch of the household soothed, rising to murmur something in his ears as she ushered him into their room. “Please stay,” she said, as the two soldiers began to rise from their seats. 

Guilt consumed them both like fire; they hadn’t meant to intrude upon or cause tension in any homes. But just as they were about to make a move discreetly, Leila ran over to tug them both back into their seats. 

“It’s okay. I think Papa’s just tired, but he’ll be okay soon,” she whispered hurriedly, hushedly. And any protests or arguments they might have had were effectively ceased by the tears that were beginning to brim in her crimson eyes. 

“Please don’t cry, Leila dear,” Riza hushed, allowing her to lean into her sturdy frame. Chewing on her bottom lip thoughtfully, Leila nodded and flashed them a half-hearted smile. Riza combed her fingers through her hair gently, soothing her frazzled nerves with comforting murmurs. 

Leila’s mother returned to the table moments later with an apologetic smile. “I’m very sorry about that, sirs. I’ll speak to my husband later. He’s not usually like this - I’m very so -” 

“Please don’t be,” Mustang interrupted. “ _We_ should be the ones saying that. We do apologise for the intrusion, Miss Ames.” 

“You’re really not,” she waved a dismissive hand, but the air around them had darkened considerably. Questions unspoken weighed down on them, begging to be asked. “He… well, my husband lost his family in the war. I suppose some wounds are still pretty raw,” she smiled wryly, saving them the awkwardness of having to voice them out loud. “I thought it would’ve healed by now, or at least partially. For me, at least, I’ve learnt to let go and appreciate what I have in the present.” 

Now occupied with the last of the red bean buns, Leila failed to see the meaningful look that her mother was giving her. 

Hawkeye ended up being the first to respond, for she’d always been better at schooling her emotions and dealing with such situations than her superior. “We certainly don’t blame him, Miss Ames. And we…” 

Weren’t apologies meaningless at this juncture, given the nature of the crimes they had committed?

_Irreversible. Irrevocable._

“We understand. We take full responsibility for our actions, and do not expect forgiveness of any kind.” 

“Oh, no, perhaps you misunderstand. I _have_ forgiven the military for what they’ve done,” and she offered them each a glass of lemonade that she’d gotten earlier from the fridge, as if to emphasise her point. “Took me awhile, but I’d like to think it made me a happier person. And wouldn’t it be rather hypocritical for me to teach my child about forgiveness as part of our faith, and yet be unable to practice it myself?” 

“I’m not sure what to say, Miss Ames. We certainly aren’t deserving,” Hawkeye murmured. 

Eyes lowered (and glistening with tears unshed, he noted), she accepted the drink hesitantly. Mustang did the same, still speechless. 

“Words aren’t necessary, dear. I know you two have been trying your best… and that’s enough for me, and Leila,” the child nodded vigorously at this, “and with time, hopefully it will be for my husband, too. I’m sorry things turned out this way.” 

“ _We_ are sorry for causing things to turn out this way, Miss Ames,” Mustang replied.

“No, don’t be. Focus on restoration, and that will suffice for us.” 

They nodded at last, solemn and sombre, standing to leave after finishing the dinner she’d prepared for them. 

“Thank you once again, Miss Ames,” they whispered in unison as they headed to the door. 

Leila rushed to intercept them, running across the room to encase them in a haphazard hug. “Thanks for coming over. I’m really sorry about Papa, but I just wanted to say that dinner with you two was really nice…” Peering up from her long, thick lashes, she then asked, “Will we see each other again?” 

Mustang inhaled deeply. He hadn’t the heart to refuse her request, nor dash the hope twinkling in her eyes. “We will,” he promised, bending down to return the embrace. 

**~x~**

“Are you alright, Hawkeye?” Mustang asked once they were safely in the carriage; curtains tightly drawn shut to ensure privacy. 

“Are _you_ alright, sir?” 

He nodded primly. “That was an… interesting family.” Because wasn’t it interesting how people could forgive them, even when _they_ couldn’t forgive themselves? 

But he supposed it didn’t matter, either way. After all, neither of them had embarked on this journey for the sake of earning forgiveness. Their ultimate goal was improving the lives of those who’d suffered injustice; surely their own nightmares paled in comparison to the hell that the Ishvalans had endured. And Mister Ames was the perfect example of how the sins they’d committed would likely endure to their graves. 

Which was fine, Mustang thought. He was certainly justified to bear his grudges and vitriolic hatred, and they wouldn’t hold it against him for doing so. 

The look in Riza’s eyes told him she agreed with his musings wholeheartedly. 

Mustang smiled sadly and shifted a little so that she could rest her head on his shoulder. Completely enervated from the events that had occurred over dinner, Hawkeye obliged without protest; eyelids fluttering shut as her body began to relax into his.

As he observed her peaceful expression, he couldn’t help but think about the affectionate bliss that the little family shared. Fuelled by years of suppressed envy and the sort of sentimentalism that tended to come with the desert, Mustang’s mind then began to direct itself to a certain alchemist with an exceptionally short fuse and his family. He thought of the way the young couple had _beamed_ every time their eyes landed on their child, notwithstanding the depths of their dark circles that spoke of countless sleepless nights: an inevitability that came with having a screaming, wailing newborn.

It struck him then, like lightning. 

Edward, for all his shortcomings, had managed to give his wife a life of bliss; love and holy matrimony. He, on the other hand, had cursed the only woman he’d ever loved with pain and suffering and violent purgatory. 

Roy sighed, heart twinging with regret and remorse. And he prayed - feeling a little more religious than he probably had any right to - that he’d eventually be able to turn that around some day. Make things right with _her,_ at least. For even if he couldn’t do that with everyone he’d wronged, he hoped to at least do so for the one dearest to him. 

“I can _hear_ you thinking, sir,” she mumbled, eyes still closed. “You should sleep, too,” and her tone made it clear that she would brook no disagreements. 

Chuckling softly, Roy moved to rest his head on hers as well, heart swelling with adoration and self-reproach. 

**~x~**

“Colonel Bastard,” came the disgruntled voice of a certain blonde from outside the carriage. 

“That’s General Mustang to you, Fullmetal,” he smirked. 

Ed snorted, but raised his hand in a half-salute when his companion came out. “Hello, Lieutenant Colonel Hawkeye. I hope you’ve been well,” he greeted, expression softening into a genuine smile. 

“I have. I hope you’ve been well too, Ed. And there’s no need to address us by our titles - you’re no longer military, after all,” she smiled softly before elbowing Mustang in the ribs. Ed cackled, muttering something about how Hawkeye deserved better than some half-brained jerk with a god complex under his breath. “Where’s Alphonse, by the way?” 

“He’s somewhere inside, I think. But Ling said it’d be wise to come get you both, given how ridiculously big this place is,” he grumbled. And it was. Whoever said Central Headquarters was huge clearly hadn’t seen the size of this monstrosity before. Stone-arched bridges connected the different imperial courts and divisions, which were surrounded by azure moats that reflected the shimmery sky overhead. The main palace, located in the centre of it all, was painted in vibrant shades of red and gold; its columns and upper arches engraved with carvings of five-clawed dragons perched atop mountains. Symbols of dignity and royalty - an ode to the Imperial Family’s sovereignty. And though it was already late summer, chrysanthemums carpeted the pavements and walkways in a sea of glowing yellow. 

“Quite a sight to behold, isn’t it?” Mustang remarked as they walked alongside Ed, pausing to admire the palace’s grandeur and beauty every now and then. Riza’s favourite seemed to be the paulownia pavilion, if her reduced pace was any indication. 

“It is,” she murmured as she admired the pink lotuses in quiet reverence, although her reverie was quickly broken by a maidservant’s loud fussing. 

“Young Master!” she called, glaring daggers at Ed who now resembled a deer caught in the headlights. Mustang hid his sniggering behind an open palm at his obvious distress. “There’s no way you can enter the feast dressed like that! Did Emperor Ling not inform you of the appropriate dress code?” 

“Er…” he stammered, nonplussed. 

Mustang’s guffawing only grew in volume.

Hawkeye’s expression, on the other hand, remained carefully neutral as she jabbed him in the ribs once more. _Control yourself, sir._

“The Emperor is too lax when it comes to decorum and propriety,” grumbled the maidservant, clad in billowing folds of silken fabric of white and gold that looked wholly unsuited for summertime. An extravagant floral headpiece hung precariously atop her head, and Mustang had to marvel at how it remained so well-balanced throughout her entire censure. “And you two,” she barked, turning to survey the both of them. “Are you two attending the feast as well?” 

Mustang nodded, still snickering to himself. 

Amusement quickly melted into alarm when, with a decisive snap, a throng of young women promptly appeared to whisk them away towards a room filled with chiffons and silks; bathtubs and scented oils, and an army of female servants whose waifish frames betrayed none of their herculean strength. There they were forcefully stripped and scrubbed of any dirt and grime lingering on their sunburnt skin, before a whole assortment of fragrances and moisturisers were rubbed onto their beings and scalps. Finally satisfied with their handiwork, the cadre of beauticians then proceeded to shove them none too gently into ‘attires fit for the Imperial Court’ despite vehement protests and struggles to the contrary. 

When they emerged from the dreadful room at last, clothed in traditional Xingese garb, Mustang wasn’t laughing anymore. 

“Much better,” declared the maidservant who had been responsible for the seemingly unending hours of torture in the first place. Mustang and Ed grumbled, both contemplating the repercussions of tearing their robes apart. (Ed had been forcefully shoved into a silken golden robe that matched his hair and eyes, while Mustang was swathed in endless layers of blue satin - which, mercifully, was _not_ the same shade of blue as the distasteful military get-up). 

Clucking her tongue in approval, she turned to lead them towards the banquet, pretending not to notice as the trio scratched at their skins like they’d been bitten by sandflies. 

“This is all your fault, sir,” Hawkeye said through gritted teeth. Although the high-neck collar of her lilac robe concealed her scar gracefully, it looked painfully uncomfortable, too. And the ropes of pearls draped around only had the effect of worsening her already ostensible discomfort as they sought repose in the column of her throat, given the way she was on the verge of ripping it apart with her freshly lacquered nails. 

“Sorry,” Mustang muttered half-heartedly, secretly pleased at the way her outfit accentuated her figure. “You look beautiful, though,” he grinned, allowing himself this one small indulgence. 

Riza’s expression remained placid as she walked beside him, ignoring his miserable attempts at flattery the other servants’ hushed whisperings of how compatible and - God forbid, _adorable -_ they looked together. 

**~x~**

From afar, the Empress Dowager regarded Mustang with a critical eye as he ambled towards the dining hall with his inseparable companion. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little something I've been working on aside from **[memento amare](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24862408/chapters/60147661)** because I need some fluff in my life :') Feedback and comments are always deeply appreciated; I'd love to hear what you thought! Alternatively, I'm on Tumblr (firewoodfigs) if you'd like to say hi 🥰 
> 
> I was kinda hesitant about posting this, because as I re-read the first chapter I realised the writing styles are kinda different since I wrote the first chapter nearly three months ago (and a lot has changed since then LOL). But I realised that _maybe_ it could work, considering that chapter 1 was mostly centred around Roy's parents and narrated from Yao Xuan's POV? IDK ahah but I hope you enjoyed it nevertheless! :'D 
> 
> \- 
> 
> I had an epiphany that the trade route between Xing and Amestris was basically Silk Road, LOL. And after doing some research I learnt that it was originally supposed to have been called Jade Road instead because the Southern stretches were used for trading jade and I was like yeehaw what a fitting homage to Roy’s mother 🥺 
> 
> Also, not many references are made to Xingese culture here, unlike in the first part, because I wanted to focus more on Ishval first, considering that I ended the previous chapter that way. The journey kind of goes from Xing, to Amestris, to Ishval, and then to Xing again - places which all played a significant role in shaping Roy to become the person he is today :) More to come next chapter, though! (I split this into three parts because this chapter was getting a bit too long compared to the first 😆) 
> 
> OKAY enough rambling from me, it's 2am here and my brain is half-asleep :') I hope you're all doing well!! Stay safe and take care, everyone 💖


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